


pillsbury funfetti cake mix

by reddisk



Category: South Park
Genre: Closeted Character, Coming of Age, Halloween, High School, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-24 06:22:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16634630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reddisk/pseuds/reddisk
Summary: Kyle isn’t much for swimming. Since realizing the piss-to-person ratio in most water parks (see: not in his favor), he withdrew from the concept of a pool party, although he is easily swayed by the promise of birthday cake.





	pillsbury funfetti cake mix

Kyle isn’t much for swimming. Since realizing the piss-to-person ratio in most water parks (see: not in his favor), he withdrew from the concept of a pool party, although he is easily swayed by the promise of birthday cake. (Cake is bad for his blood sugar. He likes frosting, though.)

Sharon picks him up in her big-bulky SUV, and Stan hangs out of the passenger window, shirtless and grinning. His hair sweeps across his forehead haphazardly, but handsomely. 

“Hey, dude,” he offers. His voice has gotten gravelly. Kyle still chirps, but he can’t find it within himself to hate Stan for this dissonance. 

“Hey,” replies Kyle. He crosses his arms over his chest almost defensively. 

“Get in.”

And Kyle does. His back is sweaty, and it sticks to the hot leather of the backseat. He silently longs for a t-shirt; Stan is very tan and strong, whereas Kyle feels like a baby bird. His legs are too long. His arms are fuzzy with thin, coppery hair like feather down.

Stan fiddles with the radio. Sharon insists on eighties’ top hits, but she allows him to adjust the volume to his preference, which means it’s almost always silent. “Did you bring Token’s present?”

“Yeah.” Kyle shakes a wrapped package in response. It’s a video game, and it cost him thirty dollars (his mother put down a reluctant thirty-five and insisted he pay the rest). It’s been boxed and papered, and he’s embarrassed now that he sees Stan’s present is in a shopping bag. 

Stan nods. “Cool. He’s gonna freak. I got him a poster from the movie theater — like, from the display boxes.”

“You’re lucky Shelley works the popcorn machine.”

“I know, right?”

“We’re almost there, boys,” announces Sharon. Kyle can tell she’s wearing a new blouse, but holds his tongue: Stan has begun to sulk when his friends mention her looks. Despite her short-cropped hair, she’s very beautiful — and, well,  _ busty.  _ Kyle doesn’t see the appeal. 

“Thanks, mom.” Stan checks his hair in the rearview. ( _ Wendy,  _ thinks Kyle.) Sharon notes this behavior with a smile, and they continue into South Park’s gated neighborhood. Sharon accidentally scrubs against the Black’s front curb. Kyle has been to Token’s relatively often in the last few weeks, as they’ve been chipping away at their summer assignments, but Stan still seems more comfortable taking the lead (whereas Kyle lingers behind, pretending to be occupied with the glint of his watch). 

Mrs. Black answers the door. She’s dressed conservatively, which comes as a relief to Kyle; he doesn’t want any more girls in the pool than is absolutely necessary. 

“Hello,” says Stan awkwardly. He doesn’t know Mrs. Black very personally. 

“Oh, come on in, boys!” She smiles. There’s red lipstick on her teeth, but Kyle remains silent. “You can set your presents on this table, here — everyone’s outside — if you’re hungry, there’s fruit salad, potato chips, chicken wings—”

“Hey, guys.” Token has a towel around his shoulders. His mother kisses his cheek, and he winces. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” says Kyle. “Happy birthday.” Stan nods along. 

“Thanks. Party’s outside.”

“We’ll meet you out there,” says Stan, and he sets his present down with the others. Kyle does the same, and he spills his backpack out onto the table: sunscreen, his library card, a spare towel. There’s also a linty old sweatshirt that his mom insisted upon in case the weather turned sour. He’s grateful for it now, hyper-conscious of the way his hip bones just over his bathing suit, and pulls the sweatshirt over his angular shoulders, posthaste.  

“You’re not swimming?” Stan sounds disappointed. 

“I don’t think so.”

“Oh.” There’s a pause, then a shrug. “Don’t forget your sunscreen.”

Kyle groans, and Stan laughs. They bump shoulders on the way outside. Either the others are early, or they’re late; he spots Cartman bobbing stupidly in the shallow end of the pool, Kenny balancing precariously on Butters’ shoulders, mid-chicken. Tweek, Craig, Jimmy, Clyde — checks out — and then, the girls. 

They’re in two-pieces. This alarms Kyle, and he turns, drops his things on the hot concrete. Stan waves at Wendy (who, distantly, waves back). Bebe whispers something; they both laugh. 

“What do you think they’re saying?” asks Stan hopelessly. 

“Probably something stupid.” A pause. “Come on, go swim.”

“No, I’ll sit with you.” 

Kyle wonders if he’s imagining the reluctance in Stan’s voice. “It’s fine. I’m not going anywhere, dude.”

“I guess.” He looks to the pool, to Kyle, and eventually makes his way toward the diving board. Satisfied (but not really), Kyle wanders off in the opposite direction, and finds himself amongst the plasticky lawn chairs. 

“Hi, Kyle,” calls Bebe. She’s wearing a tight red bikini, but has covered up with a white mesh pullover. Her blonde lashes are free of their usual coat of mascara. Wendy, meanwhile, is sunbathing fully in a mauve swimsuit; it conceals her meager cleavage, but shows off a great deal of her flat, tan stomach. Kyle is reminded uncomfortably of a wasp’s thorax. 

“Hey.” he shuffles toward the pair, hands deep in his hoodie pockets. 

“Come sit.”

And so he does. The sun beats uncomfortably through his sweatshirt and onto his back.

Bebe sets her phone aside, stretches. “Well?”

“...Well?”

“ _ Well,  _ I got a belly button ring.”

Oh. Kyle’s gaze falls to the curve of her belly, and he catches a glint of silver above her navel. “Whoa.”

“It hurt, but it was worth it.” Bebe smiles. “Cool, right?”

“Very cool.” Kyle struggles to think of something worth saying. Eventually, he settles upon: “My mom would never let me get a piercing.” Internally, he cringes — but the girls laugh, so maybe he did alright. 

“This is  _ so  _ boring,” drawls Wendy, kicking one long leg over the other. “The other boys are only going to swim all day.”

“I wanted to go nightswimming,” complains Bebe. “Dayswimming is a waste of suntanning.”

Kyle is having trouble keeping up with this conversation. Silently, he longs for Stan’s familiar presence, familiar speech patterns. “We should play truth or dare,” he blurts. Stupidly. He hates party games. 

“Ooh!” Bebe nods, claps her hands together. “That’s a great idea!”

“We can play Spin the Bottle—”

“—Ew, no,  _ Butters  _ is here—”

“—And Clyde—”

“—And Stan.” Wendy catches Kyle’s bewildered expression and promptly explains: “It’s nothing personal, Kyle. I can’t just go kissing my exes.”

“I guess not,” reasons Kyle slowly. He’s beginning to feel hot in the face. “But, still. It might be fun.”

“What, you’re trying to kiss somebody?”

“Oh, Heidi’s coming. You want to kiss Heidi, don’t you?”

“What?” He panics. “No!”

“Oh, he does—”

“—Totally does—”

“AUGH.” And with that, Kyle stands and leaves, hands fisted at his sides. Heidi is nice, and she’s pretty, too. What if Heidi got one of those glittery belly button rings? That’s supposed to be attractive, right?

His eyes lay upon Stan, who is wrestling with Kenny in the deep end.  His back glistens with sweat and pool water. He’s very tan, as he tends to be in the summertime, and makes a stark contrast to Kenny’s bony arms and narrow shoulders. Is that what  _ Kyle  _ would look like, wrapped up in Stan’s arms? His chest aches, but his abdomen tightens — new topic. 

He trails indoors. Mrs. Black is presumably upstairs; thus, he fixes his food in a paper bowl, because he can’t find any plates and is too awkward to dig in the kitchen cabinets. Wings are too sloppy. He picks through the fruit salad, intentionally avoiding the melon balls, and settles into the lonely, lonely couch. 

His frown trembles. A lump forms in the back of his throat. He could leave right now, and no one would notice or care. 

_ Stan would,  _ says a voice in the back of his head.  _ Stan would care.  _

Stan isn’t here right now. 

“Hands out of your pants, kike.” Cartman’s sneering interrupts Kyle’s train of thought. He’s smacking over a chicken bone, and Kyle notes with some satisfaction that he’s also wearing a shirt; maybe he’s not the only one ashamed of his body. “What, ran inside to cry?”

Kyle refuses to give away how close Cartman is to the truth. “Oh, grow up, you fat fuck.”

“I’m  _ buff,  _ brah.”

“God!” Kyle stands. “I’m sick of this shit! Every day, it’s the same thing with you people!”

Cartman chews louder still. He belches. “What, is your tampon pinching?”

Kyle shoves past. He  _ knew _ this was a bad idea, knew it, knew —

“Hey, Kyle!” Stan catches him by the shoulder, towel tight around his waist. “Token said we can use the pool table in his basement. Just you and me.”

“Cool,” Kyle spits. His hands tremble. 

“...Yeah.” Stan frowns. Concern lights his eyes. Kyle hates that Stan can see right through him, hates that he feels watched for the most inconsequential signs of affection. Fairy. Queer. Hate.  _ Hate. _

“I’m fine.” Kyle rips away from Stan’s grasp. He can tell that he’s hurt his feelings, but buries his sympathy; Heidi has arrived in a millenial pink one-piece. He forces himself to stare at her chest. 

“They’re starting truth or dare,” mumbles Stan. “D’you wanna play?”

“Sounds stupid.” 

“Yeah, probably.”

“Let’s go.”

They arrange in something of a circle, sitting on towels and picking the pepperoni off their pizza. Stan asked for three slices. His appetite has been steadily increasing, whereas Kyle’s has only worsened. (Maybe that’s why Stan’s happy trail is so dark.)

“Jimmy.” Token, as birthday boy, has taken the reign. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare. I’m no p-puss-pussy.”

Token clearly takes this as a challenge. He hums thoughtfully, cups his chin in both hands. “...Stick a Hot Cheeto up your nose. For as long as you can.”

The girls let out a chorus of “eww”s. Jimmy, initially baffled, quickly toughens up for the cause; a very reluctant Clyde offers up one of his Cheetos. 

A few crumbs fall unto Jimmy’s upper lip. He breathes steadily through his mouth, but it’s very obviously beginning to burn. The corner of his eyes water. He licks his lips, nose twitching. 

“Well?” asks Token. He leans forward. 

“Actually, it’s not—” Jimmy sneezes, and gooey, orange snot drips into his lap. “—that, that buh-bad.”

Kyle winces, Stan laughs, and the game continues (albeit without Jimmy, who clamors inside and rinses his nasal passage with tissue paper). Butters is forced to eat a raw egg. Clyde has to like every post —  _ every  _ post — on Henrietta Biggle’s Facebook wall, going back three years. (Stan doesn’t find this nearly as funny as the others.) Eventually, they get to Heidi, who seems unsettled by the course of dares thus far.

Wendy clears her throat. Earlier, Clyde dared her to remove her bikini top, and she adamantly refused (to Kyle’s relief). Thus, she accepted the penalty: five dollars to the darer. (Three in her case, because Clyde’s dare was “primitive, boorish, misogynistic, and exactly what she expected of him.”) She settles on Heidi with a self-satisfied expression. “Heidi, truth or dare?”

“I don’t feel so good,” says Butters, who has been lying dejectedly on his side since eating his raw egg. 

Wendy shushes him. “Heidi?”

Heidi’s big brown eyes seem to water. Her two front teeth are a little too big for her mouth, Kyle can’t help but note. “Dare.”

“I dare you to kiss Kyle.”

Kyle’s heart stops, goes again. Rackets into his throat. He feels Stan tense at his side, and the other girls “ooh” — he hates it, hates them. Hates  _ this.  _ This is going to be his first kiss. He’s thought about it before, but never like this. Never Heidi. (Why not Heidi?)

Stan’s chapped lips, Stan’s broad hands, Stan’s dark, feathery hair. Just Stan. He doesn’t want to embarrass Heidi, though, and everyone’s watching, and — 

“Okay,” he finds himself saying. 

“Road-rash trash belongs together,” sneers Cartman, but he’s visibly red. 

“Be quiet!” Wendy appears pleased, and so does Bebe; Kyle has a sneaking suspicion that they planned this. At their sides, Heidi gives a hesitant nod. She’s pinker than cotton candy. 

Kyle scoots closer. He feels especially knock-kneed in her curvy presence, but she isn’t looking at his body — just his lips. He fights the urge to cough. Heidi’s hands are smaller and plumper than his. 

“This is revolting,” says Craig.

With a bump of noses, they’re kissing. Kyle expects some kind of  _ flavor,  _ like bubblegum chapstick or strawberry shortcake, but she just tastes like mouth. Her lips are sticky with lip gloss. A tentative hand slides up his back; he remembers they’re being watched, so he sets his hand against her cheek. She’s warm. 

He feels nothing. 

Eventually, they pull apart — he initiates this — and Clyde whoops as if  _ he  _ were the one to kiss a girl. Did he put on a good performance, he wonders? Will there be rumors the next day? Should he even be thinking about this, now that Heidi is so blatantly ogling him, eyes glistening with admiration? 

Stan stands and leaves. Kenny follows.

“Your turn, Heidi,” calls Token. He eyes Kyle with a new and vague respect.

She’s practically glowing. “Ummm…” A pause. “Tweek, truth or dare?”

“Oh,  _ Jesus!” _

* * *

Kyle dates Heidi for a good year and a half, which is very serious by most high school standards. She teases her hair, wears the colors he likes, and insists on packing his lunches (kosher  _ and  _ vegan, which means he’s picking at carrots, but he doesn’t mind). She grows another half-inch; Kyle grows another four. Their height difference makes for something truly comical as they traipse through their freshman year. 

Stan is still his friend, but they aren’t nearly as touchy; Kyle hadn’t noticed how physical they’d been until Stan’s lingering touches were gone. They stop having sleepovers. Stan’s parents divorce, and although he stays with his father in South Park, a wedge is driven further between the pair. He drinks too much. Kyle tries to remain a positive force in his life, but is pushed further away, away, away — and suddenly, Stan is no longer his friend at all. 

He can’t explain how lonely he feels. This is about the time Heidi grows antsy; Kyle won’t touch her below the belt, and they’re nearly sixteen. She tries desperately to jerk him off. He stays soft. She cries, and by the next morning, their breakup has reached even his kohen at shul. 

Cartman says she’s fat, anyway. Kyle fractures his nose. 

Come junior year, Stan has reinvented himself some, although he’s still notorious for his beastly alcohol tolerance. He’s captain of the football team. Kyle silently admires his jersey on Fridays, and when Token decides to attend a home game, a shock of red hair is always sure to tag along. 

Stan’s hair is shorter. His face is longer. His number is thirty-one, and so Kyle changes the PIN on his phone to match: thirty-one, nineteen. 

So,  _ maybe  _ he has a crush. He’s come to terms with the fact. He’s kissed Dav íd twice, and he frequents gay porn sites more often than he’d like to admit. Innocent, right? Harmless. 

Kenny sets a twenty-four ounce of black coffee on Kyle’s desk. They don’t talk as much as they used to, but Kyle sometimes invites him over for 2K, so it’s not as weird as it could be. 

“Hey.” His eyebrows raise. “What’s up?”

“I’ve got a preposition for you.”

“Shoot.”

“Halloween party? This weekend?”

Kyle groans. He’s hardly balancing his workload as is, and he doesn’t see how Hennessey and horny teenagers will remedy that. “You aren’t using me for a hookup, are you? I’m not buying your weed.”

“Actually, I’m inviting you for a very different reason.” Kenny’s eyes glint. He acts more dangerous than he is, sometimes. “A little birdy wants you there.”

“Oh, barf.” Kyle rolls his eyes. “Are they ugly?”

“Depends on your standards.”

Kyle considers this. He’s not necessarily out of the closet, but there are rumors, and he’s made no attempt to disrupt them. He hasn’t managed a serious relationship since Heidi. Would Kenny be trying to hook him up with a  _ girl,  _ he wonders? “No promises.”

“Cool.” Kenny grins. There’s a gap between his two bottom teeth, similarly to Kyle’s  _ front  _ teeth. Cartman used to call them two halves of a whole set of braces. “I need a ride, too.”

“ _ God _ , fine!”

The rest of Kyle’s day is relatively painless, although he falls asleep in the library during sixth and wakes up with a red lump on his forehead. He feels like the human personification of a rainstorm. Given circumstance, he should probably be in a better mood, but he’s suspicious of Kenny’s motive: who is this mystery suitor? It couldn’t be Heidi. Is it  Dav íd _?  _ He attends a private school upstate, and Kyle finds it hard to believe he’d drive the hour south to mack on his worst-ever fling. 

He settles into his kitchen table, exasperated. There isn’t enough Sour Diesel in the world to soothe his nerves. His mother bumbles over the stove; meanwhile, Ike picks idly at his Legos, which are neatly arranged as to replicate the Arc de Triomphe. Kyle stares tiredly. 

“What?” Ike puffs out his chest. He’s eleven, nearing twelve, and yet he’s already as waspish as his brother. 

“Nothing.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing,” chirps his mother. She stirs idly at a big bowl of matzo ball soup. Fridays are stew days, which means she dumps nonsense into a bowl and somehow manages something delicious. “What’s the matter, my bubbeleh?”

_ “Nothing _ .” 

“A boy?”

Kyle pulls at his cheeks until they hurt. “You’re ruining my life, ma.”

“Hardly!”

“He’s sulking,” spouts Ike, “because he’s seventeen and a virgin.”

“Incidentally, you’re eleven and a retard.”

“Kyle!”

“Well, you’re almost  _ eighteen,  _ and you still keep a nightlight in your bedroom!”

Kyle tires quickly of Ike’s nonsense. He stands, all six feet of himself, and shakes Ike out of his chair. His poor little brother falls to the linoleum with a clatter. As his mother gapes, he turns into the stairwell. His bedroom is calling. A nap, a smoke. (Something, God?)

“Kyle- _ Aryeh _ -Broflovski, you come  _ here, _ mister!”

“I can’t, I’m angsting.” He’s already halfway upstairs. “I’m going to a Halloween party. Next Friday. Goodbye, forever.”

“Friday? That’s the nineteenth, isn’t it?”

His blood runs cold.

* * *

“A  _ birthday  _ party?” It’s the next morning, and Kyle is stomping circles around one Kenny McCormick. He’s wrapped tight in a puffy coat and a rashy woolen scarf. There’s a cup of black coffee in one hand, and he makes broad, vague hand gestures with the other. He means business. 

“On technicality, yes.”

“I haven’t spoken to Stan in years!”

Kenny groans. “You make things so complicated, sometimes.”

“Oh,  _ I  _ make things complicated?”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?”

Kyle grinds his teeth. His head pounds. Silently, he wonders if he’s angry, or if he’s only embarrassed; he never expected to be so personally invited to a party of Stan’s. Not anymore, at least. 

“He asked me a favor, is all.” Kenny shrugs. “Just dress up. Bring a plate of rice krispies, or something. Shit.”

“Is that mandatory?”

“No, but you’ll look real cute in a costume, and I love your mom’s krispies.”

With a final huff of exasperation, Kyle turns tail. He’s  _ frustrated.  _ He’s  _ exhausted.  _ He’s, he’s — 

He spots Stan, darling Stan, leaning leisurely against a row of army green lockers. His bangs fall in a part. For the millionth time, Kyle is forced to realize how broad his chest appears in those tight t-shirts, admires the slope of his jaw and the dark hair running down his forearms. He’s surrounded by goons, but is decidedly the sun of his solar system. 

_ Handsome.  _ That’s the only word that applies. Where would they be, he wonders, if they hadn’t fallen apart? If  _ Stan  _ had been his first kiss?

Whatever. It’s decided.

(He’d better find a decent costume.)

* * *

Never did Kyle expect he’d resort to such stupid tactics, but here he is, dressed rather modestly as a bumblebee. His striped sweater is itchy. He’d rather die than strap a stinger to the belt loops of his chinos, and antennae are out of the question; he settled for minimal mortification. Reasonably so, he’ll add.

He expected the usual contrived idea of a Halloween party, all sex appeal and fake blood and jello shots, but is pleasantly surprised by his reality: booze, yes, but minimal attendance. Nobody’s shouting. Music booms, as does  _ Halloween IV,  _ but Kyle is able to navigate the household relatively easily. (This may have something to do with his complicit knowledge of the Marsh household.)

He sips idly at a wine cooler. This earns him some odd stares, but he’s in no position to get sloshed — bad for his sugar, bad for his common sense. The last time he had more than a shot he woke up with his socks on his hands. As he slinks from one room to another, he silently notes things he recognizes from his childhood, things that have changed: there’s no Sharon to decorate for the holidays. The couch reeks of spilled liquor, and there isn’t a single photo of Stan past early adolescence. 

Next, he surveys the kitchen. Clyde sucks a bottle of Glitter Cîroc dry, whereas Kenny attacks the rice krispies. Sighing through his nose, Kyle shoulders past to fix himself a rum and coke — on second thought, just a coke, thanks. Diet Coke. 

“Hey.” He drifts to Kenny’s side. “Where’s Stan?”

“...Huh?” Kenny blinks his glazed eyes. “Stan’s, uh… This is, this is Stan’s party, I thought.” 

“I’m uncomfortably aware of that, thanks.”

Clyde belches, scratching lazily at his own hairy stomach. “Upstairs, I think.”

“Pro’lly puking,” adds Kenny. 

‘We got him all kinds of fucked.” Clyde grins, and they slap hands. Kyle scowls. He tops off his Coke, fixes a solo cup of cold tap water, and meanders upstairs rather uncomfortably. How  _ stupid.  _ Kyle Broflovski, wearing a bumble-striped sweater, chasing after Stan Marsh just like all those years ago. Maybe there’s time to turn tail! Give up, go home, drunk-dial an ex?

Unfortunately, he doesn’t. He knocks on Stan’s bedroom door like a moron. 

“Come in,” says Stan’s voice, muffled by a pillow. 

Kyle sighs. Now or never, he supposes, and he pushes his way into the room. Inside, Stan lies flat on his stomach. Those broad shoulders of his are slumped forward, and he almost expects to see tears collecting in his milky blue eyes, but they’re fully dry. He’s turned an old football jersey into a semblance of costume. 

“Hello,” says Kyle awkwardly. He shuffles his feet. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Stan sits up so fast that it’s dizzying. His face goes blotchy red, and Kyle assumes it’s the alcohol. He wipes at his eyes, turns to Kyle, and sits up properly.  “You came,” he blurts. 

“I did.” Kyle sets both cups on the nearest flat surface. It feels like a Satanic offering. 

Stan goes redder still. “I didn’t expect you to, is all.”

“You know me,” says Kyle. His back is stiff. “A party animal.”

Stan laughs. Afterwards, he seems to regret the fact. “They tried to get me drunk, but it wasn’t working, and they were kind of depressing me.”

“Me, too. I hate to see Kenny raiding the fridge.”

“I know.” Stan rubs at his stubbly cheeks. (Kyle, who is quite fond of facial hair on his men, struggles to maintain a neutral expression.) “I hope he takes the baby carrots. Nobody’s eating them, here.”

“...How much did you have, exactly?” Kyle nudges the water forward. 

Stan seems perfectly sober, save for a red face and ears. He begins to count on his fingers. “A double shot, some Cîroc, another, uh, shot — um — rum, I think that’s what was in there—” 

“Okay, I think I get it.” Kyle can’t help but laugh, even if he feels insensitive for the fact; Stan’s puppy eyes are as sweet and sentimental as they were in the eighth grade. “That’s enough to warrant a sip of water, I think.”

Stan offers a soft sort of smile. “Okay,” he says pleasantly. Kyle’s heart warms without his own consent. 

There’s a comfortable silence. Stan gradually works down his tap, and Kyle stares at the bedroom walls, which have been stripped all but bare. The only decor is a calendar from the ASPCA and a single photo of Mrs. Marsh —  _ Sharon,  _ now. He sometimes forgets the divorce. 

“I know,” say Stan. He sounds sad. “It’s empty.”

“Only a little.” Kyle’s eyes fall to the shoes lining Stan’s closet space. “It’s different, is all.”

“Different,” agrees Stan. “I didn’t want to remember, I guess. Before.”

Kyle swallows. Never has he spoken about Stan’s suicide attempt in context. The  _ incident,  _ he’d call it. The Stan thing. “I don’t blame you,” he offers. “That was a pretty serious thing to happen, I think.” 

“I pushed you away, after.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“And, I’m — I’m sorry, you know?”

Is this what he wanted? An apology? Somehow, Kyle is overwhelmed. He feels like he’s been opened up on an operating table. “Stan, you don’t have to apologize.”

“I  _ should.”  _ Stan sighs through his hands. “I’ve fucked up so many things, and I’m trying to — I don’t know, atone? My therapist says I’m stuck on some things.”

“Is  _ that  _ why you invited me?” Kyle can’t help it; he sounds accusatory.

“I — no!”

“Because,” Kyle sucks in a breath, “I’ve done some growing, too. You aren’t my  _ universe _ anymore. I’m not twelve and sexually confused, or, or — fifteen, and kissing Heidi  _ fucking  _ Turner!”

“You liked her,” mumbles Stan.

“No, I didn’t! That’s the thing! Everyone’s telling me how I used to feel, how I should feel, when I’ve hardly ever known  _ myself!  _ Ever!”

“Don’t shout.” Stan’s gotten teary.

“...Okay.” So he sits. Decompresses. Folds his hands into his lap,heaves the most humongous sigh there ever was. His hands are sticky with cola, and his head pounds; Stan’s sniffling only worsens the ache. 

“I was so, so angry,” says Stan. He sounds congested. “That you chose her.”

“I didn’t. She sort of just fell into my lap.”

“Your  _ lap?”  _

“I never had sex with her, or anything! Not ever. Literally, never.” Kyle pauses to lick nervously at his chapped lips. “...That’s why we broke up. She was, uh. Frustrated.” 

“Sex with Wendy was awful.” 

Kyle relishes this. “Really?”

“Yeah, it was like. Not  _ boring.  _ It wasn’t her fault, she did fine, she just—”

“—Wasn’t what you wanted,” interjects Kyle. 

“Exactly!” Stan laughs, relieved. “Nobody ever gets that. You just  _ get  _ me, dude. Always have.”

“You got me, too.” He exhales. Clenches his hands, almost determinedly. Hopefully. ( _ What are you, stupid? _ ) “Remember Token’s birthday party? The pool party, freshman year?”

“Yeah. I wanted you to swim.” He scratches his nose. “And, you didn’t. Why didn’t you?”

“I looked like a little alien.”

“Shut up, no you didn’t. I always thought you looked sort of, uh. Princely!”

“ _ Princely? _ ”

“Regal, almost.” Stan smiles. “The hair, and you were so pale and pink. Like a precious jewel.”

Kyle never expected to be described as a  _ jewel,  _ let alone by Stanley Marsh. He sets his cold hands against his warm cheeks. Wheezes. “Fuck, Stan.”

Stan’s face drops. Concern. (Friendly concern, or something more?) “What, what’s wrong? I thought I was being poetic.”

“You,” another shuddering breath, “you have no  _ idea,  _ the effect you have on me.”

“I’m not trying to have any effects.” He sounds a little sad. “I only want to make you happy.”

“You aren’t obligated to act a certain way for my sake, Stan. Ever.”

“I wish things were different.” Stan’s hands settle in his lap. He refuses eye contact, and Kyle remembers this to be a sign of great internal conflict. “Different, like you didn’t kiss Heidi at that dumb pool party, and I didn’t  _ hate  _ you for it. Because I did. I  _ hated  _ you, Kyle.”

This comes as a mortal blow. Kyle gapes for a moment, blinking stupidly. “Why?”

“You were supposed to be  _ my _ friend.” Stan’s voice warbles. “Just  _ mine,  _ and maybe that was childish, and innocent, but I guess — I guess it wasn’t.”

“I  _ loved  _ you,” blurts Kyle. He’s not angry so much as he’s prepared to lose: Stan is going to turn his back, tell him to just fucking go, split his head against the popcorn plaster of his bedroom walls, bang,  _ bang, _ blood and guts —

“Whoa, hey,” sputters Stan, and he yanks Kyle into a debilitating sort of kiss. It’s the kind where teeth clack and noses smush. Kyle’s eyes water, and he’s not sure if it’s because Stan’s in the process of bruising his lower lip or because he’s so fucking relieved that they’re  _ doing this,  _ finally, finally! A joke? Probably! He hardly minds. So long as he’s within a loving grasp, he thinks he’ll live to tell the tale. 

Stan’s arms are thick and strong. He grew very comfortably into himself, whereas Kyle sometimes feels like a child’s plaything. It’s not so crippling a realization when Stan is pawing at his thighs like it’s the end of the world, though. He pulls away as to catch his breath, and is almost immediately captured again, ground into the mattress by at least one-seventy pounds of person. His long legs slot wherever comfortable. Stan  _ feels  _ like a football player: taut muscle, save for the soft pooch of his belly. Kyle is practically cross-eyed. 

“My mouth hurts,” whispers Kyle. He can tell that his lips are red and sore. 

Stan’s are, too. His lashes are longer and darker than Kyle remembers. “I’m sorry. I got, uh. Excited.” 

Like a puppy! Kyle’s puppy! He could never hold Stanley Marsh to a single standard, and so he smiles, ditzy with their first-ever kiss. A real and damning kiss. Sharp as glass, sweet as honeycomb. “Poor, sensitive thing that you are.”

Stan seems to think, like he’d never thought of such a thing before. He seems pleased. “Yeah!”

“Yeah,” echoes Kyle, and he meets him in another kiss. 

* * *

When Stan blows out his birthday candles (only four, because that’s all to come in one package), he’s flushed pink, even in the lowlight of the dining room. His smile is contagious. He blows out each and every candle, suffers a few painful punches to the back courtesy of Clyde, and yet the world doesn’t seem quite so big and bad.

Kyle smiles with his teeth; he doesn’t mind his gap, suddenly. Stan’s fleecy Colorado Avalanche hoodie falls off his shoulders in drapes of heavy fabric. Silently, he ruminates in the knowledge that he is no longer dressed as a bumblebee, but rather Stanley’s  _ boyfriend —  _ so, there. Eat it. 

Boyfriend? Maybe not just yet. They have more to discuss, he knows — but ultimately, it’s worth the wait, so long as he’s privy to Stan’s sweet smiles, the sincerest of sloppy kisses. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thanks for giving this fic the time of day! comments and kudos are super appreciated. i'm @brofski on tumblr if you want to keep up with my content <3


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